


unsteady (hold onto me)

by truthtakestime



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Grief, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Survivors, alcoholic Nate, implied eating disorder Maggie, possible trigger warning, strong female character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthtakestime/pseuds/truthtakestime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate tells Maggie the truth a week after the funeral. It takes time to find closure.</p><p>(pre-series, alternate universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	unsteady (hold onto me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frankie_mcstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_mcstein/gifts).



> This is entirely Vickie's fault. We were bonding over our love for Maggie (because she is brilliant and beautiful and SO strong and also my heart and soul), and somewhere along the line it turned into "what if Nate had told her the truth from the beginning? and what if she agreed to help him get revenge? and would they still break up, and how would it effect their relationship, etc. etc. etc. And this wasn't even supposed to be a THING, but then I spiraled out of control and then this happened. I hope you like it, friend. Happy birthday. (:
> 
> Also, so much love to [DinerGuy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/pseuds/DinerGuy/), [IuvenesCor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/), and [SisAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SisAngel/). Thanks for your light and in-depth betas when I was too close to be objective, and for your unwavering encouragement. You are all saints.

Nate tells Maggie the truth a week after the funeral. They’re both a mess. Neither of them have been eating, Maggie has barely slept, but at least she isn't filling the time with drinking anymore. She can't afford to. There are bills to pay, funeral expenses ( _why_ do they make it so expensive to _lose your child_?), and someone has to make sure that Nate doesn't kill himself. 

She’d never thought that was something she would need to worry about before. Now she's terrified. It's something she thinks he shouldn't put her through so soon after losing -- after they bury --

It’s too painful to finish that thought. A bottle and a half of Nate's good Scotch later and she's blackout drunk, doesn't have to think like that for a dozen hours.

"Maggie, there's something I have to tell you." He's more sober than she is, and that's new. That’s scary, considering the last week. He helps her sit up and makes her coffee, and when she’s awake enough, he tells her the truth. It takes a painfully long time.

“I found a treatment… something that would have helped… and I went to Ian to pay for it and he wouldn't. I told him everything, that we'd sold or mortgaged everything and we were broke, and he wouldn't. Twenty years with that company, and he wouldn't help save our son…”

By the time he's done, she's bawling, eyes red and raw, and she thought she'd long since spent all her tears in the last week. She wants something stronger than coffee, but she isn't Nate. Instead, she takes a few minutes to collect herself enough to speak without breaking and says, "Why didn't you tell me this before?" 

It comes out like an accusation. Maybe it is. She’d deserved to know the truth, too. 

"I...I was waiting until after the funeral. I didn't want you to carry this too."

"Okay. So why are you telling me now?"

"Because I want to get him back, Maggie. Ian _let our son die_ , and I want to make him pay for it. And you deserve to see it through with me."

Nate's had a few drinks already. Maggie knows that his coffee is Irish-ed. But he looks clearer than he's been since they got the diagnosis, determined. An avenging angel. 

It isn't what she wants. Yes, she deserves to know the truth, and Ian should pay, but that doesn't make it _their_ job to punish him. Maggie is tired of fighting. She is exhausted from the last year and a half of existing in limbo, of treading water until they heard from this doctor, tried this treatment, made this decision. She'd do it over again if asked (Sam was -- _is_ her son), but there is no redo button on death. Sam is -- Sam is gone. She doesn't want that to be the extent of who she is. 

But then there's the look in Nate's eyes. It's familiar. It's the one that says he's going to follow this no matter what, no matter how hopeless. He is going to make Ian suffer. And she can't leave him alone to kill himself trying. 

Maggie loves her husband. If revenge is going to give him closure, then she can put her own closure on hold for that. She has more time. 

(It's time Sam doesn't get.)

She reaches out and grips Nate's hand. "You want to get this bastard, Nate? Then let's get him." 

**

"He's got a gallery opening in New York this weekend, we could hit that. I can get us in; I'm friendly with one of the curators."

Nate leans over her shoulder to look at the computer. It's been two months since Sam's funeral, and her husband smells like whiskey and the hotel's courtesy soap. (She made him shower today. He forgets things like hygiene lately.) There’s a glass in his hand he’s drained three times already.

"It's a three million dollar contract," she continues when he doesn't respond. "Losing it is going to hurt him."

"It's not big enough," Nate dismisses, waving a hand. "We've gotta do more than just screw up the odd contract; he's got enough other business that this will barely make a dent. We need to find something massive, take down the company in one fell swoop." He swipes his hand through the air to illustrate and almost knocks over Maggie's beer. She catches it before it spills on the off-white hotel rug and frowns. 

"You're the one who wants to do something," she points out bitterly. He's too far into the bottle to pick up on her tone. "We can do all the research and plotting you want, but eventually _action_ is going to be required. That's how revenge works."

It isn't working, so far. They've spent weeks digging through everything they can find about IYS, from their own old files to shady information scrounged up in dark corners of the internet. She’s even reached out to Sterling. Everything she suggests, Nate shoots down. Maggie exists on coffee and beer and protein bars, and she's dropped almost fifteen pounds. She still isn't sleeping. Nate sleeps, but only when he drinks too much. She only lets him because otherwise he would drop dead of exhaustion. 

(She probably couldn't stop him if she tried, but at least she can moderate it.) 

For all of their effort and pain, there simply isn't enough credible information to come at Blackpoole. When Maggie had agreed to help Nate get revenge, she hadn't fully considered how _long-term_ it would be. It isn't like they can just kill him. (Maggie still has boundaries.) But information is a slow game, and Nate is spinning out faster than they're playing it. 

"We are going to do this," she makes the executive decision. Nate needs to feel like they're doing something; a win in New York will help with that. If he was sober, he'd agree. "There _is_ no magic bullet, Nate. But we can do something." 

They have to start acting soon, or she's going to lose it. Maggie needs a win too. 

**

“Maggie?”

“James?”

She’s surprised to bump into him, though maybe she shouldn’t be. They _are_ at one of Ian’s ridiculous galas. While Nate is distracting the man himself, Maggie is supposed to smile her way through the guests and “borrow” a certain piece of art that will cost IYS a fortune in claims. They’ll mail the piece back once the money’s been paid. 

(Nate had wanted to destroy the piece. Maggie has compromised a lot in the last six months, but she is firm about this. They can’t damage the art.) 

“What are you doing here?” James knows more than most about what happened. He doesn’t know their plans, but he’s a smart man. It would almost be disappointing if he hadn’t figured it out. The question is a courtesy, though he asks it with the same kind of rigid intensity with which he does everything.

The way he’s staring makes Maggie uncomfortable. She adjusts the wrap around her shoulders and tries to deflect his attention. “The exhibit is stunning, I figured I might as well enjoy it on Ian’s dime. He owes me that.” He owes her more than that, but how do you pay back a child’s life? “Why are you here? He can't possibly have you on gallery security.”

He ignores her question. “You don’t look well.” That’s actual concern in Sterling’s voice. It’s strange, until Maggie remembers that they were friends, once. (She used to have those.) “What the hell have you been up to?” 

“I’m fine,” she says tightly. He should know better than to ask. “It takes time to learn to live with what happened.” 

“I’m not talking about that.” One hand rests lightly on her shoulder, worried and protective. “You’re skinnier than a rail. When was the last time you ate something?”

There’s a tactical baton folded up in her purse. Six months ago she would never have used it, would never have agreed to carry something like that. Now Maggie would do anything to get this man out of her way. She doesn’t need his concern, or his advice, or his judgment on her choices. 

“James,” she says, very slowly and quietly so she’s sure he is listening, “you need to get out of my way.” 

Whatever venom she’s managed to put in her expression must be frightening, because he lifts his hands and backs away. But James Sterling is nothing if not a pain in the ass, and he has never been able to resist the last word. “Is ruining this frivolous little party worth what you’re doing to yourself? There has to be a better way to get revenge than starving.” 

He’s gone before she can spit something back at him, and she fumes quietly for a minute. James has no idea what he’s talking about. All Maggie is trying to do is help her husband, give him what he needs so that he can have closure. _Nate_ is the one running himself into the ground. (Just to prove Sterling wrong, Maggie grabs a plate and takes the next hors d’oeuvre that someone offers her. She vomits it into a potted plant five minutes later.) 

Later that night, when they’re back at the hotel and Nate is passed out from drinking, Maggie locks herself in the bathroom and really _looks_. And she has to admit that Sterling was right. 

She’s frighteningly thin. She doesn’t even remember it happening; the last time she’d paid attention was at the funeral, where she didn’t want to look like she was falling apart. The change from then to now is staggering. Her face is pale and gaunt, eyes hollow. Her arms are so thin they look breakable. Horrified but unable to stop, Maggie strips out of her dress and counts her ribs, fingers bumping over jutting bones. Thin fingers, skin stretched over bones with no flesh left underneath. 

When had this happened? And why is James the only one who noticed?

Maggie doesn’t tell Nate. Instead, she starts stealing bites of his breakfast until she can stomach them, and chooses her clothes more carefully. There’s already enough on his mind without adding concern for her health (what could he do about it if he knew?). They got the art, anyways. Maybe now that they’re finally getting close to Blackpoole, he’ll get his closure and they can go back to just being Maggie and Nate instead of avenging angels. Maybe they’ll finally have a chance to heal. 

**

The motel room is nicer than the last couple, at least -- it's clean, if faded, and there are no obvious signs of rats or roaches. They've had to resign themselves to cheap rooms in the last few weeks; there’s not enough money coming in from Maggie's sporadic freelance gigs to afford anything better, and Nate hasn’t worked in a year. (They lost the house three months ago. She refuses to live out of their car.) There have been three different places in as many weeks, because Nate keeps getting them kicked out. 

There are two beds. Maggie makes hers neatly when she wakes up, before going across the street for coffee and a bagel that she manages to keep down on willpower alone. She spends most of her day on the move, following up with their latest whistleblower and working on the case they've been trying to build against Ian and IYS. There isn’t much there -- they’ve all but run out of options these last few months -- but Maggie collects it all carefully and files it anyways. She's _trying_. 

Nate had stumbled into the room as she was leaving, incoherent. He'd passed out on his bed trying to open a tiny bottle of vodka with hands that hadn't stopped shaking in a week. He's still there when she gets back, snoring. 

It's four thirty. 

"Nate." He doesn't even twitch when she says his name. Undeterred, Maggie says it louder and slams the door shut.. "Nate!" 

"Ow!" He rolls over then and squints at her, bleary-eyed. Something resembling concern fights its way through his numb features. “Maggie? What's… what's wrong?"

Maggie laughs, and it hurts. The fact that her husband even has to _ask_ that question should say something. And she's done -- she's _been done_ \-- with pretending anything else. "I can't keep doing this, Nate."

He frowns, scrubs a hand over his face. They’ve been at this long enough that he doesn’t have to speak for her to know answer his question.

"This -- look at us! We have _nothing left_. No house, no jobs, no credible leads on your latest scheme -- that's where I was today, by the way, working on your plan while you were sleeping off another bender -- and _Sam is still gone_!" 

Nate flinches. She should feel bad about it, but she doesn't. It's a truth she's always known. Sam. Is. Gone. And revenge hasn't brought him back, hasn't made anything better, hasn't even _worked_ inasmuch as Blackpoole and IYS are as profitable as ever while she and Nate are living out of suitcases in two-star rooms. They've wasted a year and have made no progress. 

"I'm trying." Nate's voice is rough, with sleep, with alcohol, with whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore. "I'm trying, Mags. I need to get this guy… for you, for Sam --"

"This isn't about Sam anymore!" This is a newer realization, but not one that she questions. If she’s honest, Maggie has known it for a long time. This is just the first time she’s admitted it. "You say it is, but if this was really about our son, then you would try harder. You would pull yourself together and _fight_ for him." Like Maggie has. "This is about _you_. You've spent all this time punishing yourself because you couldn't perform a miracle, but it's not about hurting Ian anymore; it's just you. And you're punishing _me_ because I won't let you suffer in it and give up."

"That's not true."

Maggie raises an eyebrow. _He really believes that._ And maybe it's not what he intended, but that doesn't make it untrue. "Prove me wrong, then." She holds out a hand for the little bottle, the one he's still been trying to work open all this time. He narrows his eyes. "Hm. I thought so."

She leaves him three days later. Maggie still loves him -- she can't turn that off just because he's destroyed himself -- but she won't help him self-destruct anymore. They're too broken for her to fix on her own. If he won't make an effort, she can’t carry the both of them. Maggie has been hollowed out, scraped bare by his quest for revenge. She’s sure this isn't what Sam would want for them. He was only a kid, but he loved to make them happy. He would want her to be able to be happy. 

Maggie is not happy when she leaves, but she feels lighter than she has in a long time. 

**

It's been almost eight months since Maggie's seen Nate. She's doing… she can't say good. Better. A lot better, according to the therapist her mother found when she moved back home for those first months. (Maggie takes this with a grain of salt; she knows she presents well.) But she's working again, she's eating real food again, and she can sleep for five hours at a time instead of two. She has an apartment. Baby steps.

It's because of work -- authenticating several paintings for a local CEO -- that she crosses paths with her ex-husband. 

"I have to warn you, Dr. Collins, the man who is selling the pieces is a bit… well, eccentric. I can't promise that he'll be professional with you; he seemed awfully put out when I insisted on having the pieces checked by my own expert. Maybe when he sees how pretty you are, he'll curb his tongue."

Maggie appreciates the compliment, if not the flirtation behind it. She is done with men for a while. "My ex-husband was a bear with clients," she tells him politely. "I can handle myself against rough personalities." 

Nate's presence is a shock to her, but the look of surprise on his face is priceless. (He looks… not good, but better. Maybe her leaving had been the wake-up call he needed.) They both recover before her client notices that there's anything wrong.

"Stan, this is my authenticator, Dr. Collins. Dr. Collins, this is --"

"Stanley Drake, art enthusiast." Nate sticks out his hand to shake hers so vigorously she almost laughs. It's not like him to oversell. Does he really think she'd blow his cover without letting him explain himself? "And I must say, it is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. When he said ‘Dr. Collins,’ I thought that Mr. Hicks here was going to bring in a stuffy old windbag to look at my paintings." He eyes her low-cut black top with something like approval. "You are none of those things." 

"That's a nice thing to say, Mr. Drake. But you don't even know me." 

Hope in his eyes. It's a good look for him, better than despair. "I'd like to."

They get coffee. The art won't arrive until the afternoon, anyways, and Maggie is making a point to Hicks about his chances. She hopes that Nate doesn't read into it. She isn't sure what she wants from him yet.

"You look good," he says awkwardly when they sit down with their drinks. A latte for her, black coffee for him. It seems strange to see him drink it without whiskey. "Really good. I, ah, didn't know you were working again."

"I didn't know you'd changed your name," she says pointedly. After everything they've been through, she's lost her taste for pleasantries. "Stanley Drake, art enthusiast? Really?"

Nate has the decency to blush, rub his neck. "It's a… work thing. My name doesn't exactly garner the right sort of attention anymore."

"Hm. And what kind of work is this, exactly? You sell old art to pretentious CEOs?" Maggie is not afraid to call Nate on his BS. She’s known him too long, too well. He isn't allowed to spin for her.

"It's… fake art. Yeah. They're fakes. I was kind of counting on him picking someone not as good at their job as you. You went back to Collins?" The subject change is abrupt, his tone vaguely wounded. As if it surprises him. 

"We're divorced, Nate, remember?" And that isn't even the point. "Why are you doing this?" 

For a minute she thinks he won't tell her, that he'll shut her out as some sort of payback for leaving him. But then he sighs. "IYS insures his collection. This is it, Mags. This is how we're gonna get Ian." 

She holds up a hand to stop him before he gets rolling, because he's made several rather large assumptions in just a few sentences. "Nate, stop. How does that even make sense? The only people who get screwed if the fakes are discovered are Hicks and me. What will something like that do to my credibility?"

"…It wasn't supposed to be you." 

"Okay, well, that aside for a minute, who does it hurt? Not Ian."

"Hicks sells a lot of his stuff to Blackpoole -- he likes to have a ‘fluid collection’ -- and when _Ian’s_ collection turns out to be full of fakes, and the company finds out he's been lying about his assets… he'll be out, forever. This is what we were looking for --"

"Nate!"

He blinks in confusion.

Maggie sighs. She’s been hoping he won’t make her say it. "There is no _we_ anymore, Nate. No us. I can't help you do this."

"But I'm so _close_."

"That was what we said every day for over a year. And I tried, you know. But I never wanted to be like you, to be so hell-bent on revenge that there is no room left for anything else. I loved -- _love_ \-- Sam! And I hate Ian for what he did; but I'm not going through this with you again. Do you think that Sam would have wanted this to be your life? You’ve spent the last two years living on whiskey and revenge. How does _that_ honor our son?"

"That's not fair," Nate protests, anger bleeding through his words. He sets his coffee cup down harder than necessary. "I should have been able to protect him. I’m trying to make it right!"

"This isn't protecting him!" She's louder than she should be. People walking by stop to stare, and Maggie takes a deep breath. Collects herself. To his credit, Nate gives her the space she needs. "I have finally made peace with everything that happened, Nate. I'm not saying moved on, because I don't know if that's possible, but I have accepted the way that things are. And I'm doing _better_.” Her voice breaks. “I have work again, I can eat, I can go to sleep without panicking that he might die if I close my eyes. And you have no right to ask me to go through that all over again on the off-chance that this _might_ hurt Ian. I can't survive that again, I can’t help you.

Nate looks _broken_. He scratches his chin, has trouble meeting her eyes. His words come out a choked whisper. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't know..."

No, he hadn't known. He’d been too busy getting drunk to notice how anything had affected Maggie, and he deserves to feel guilty about that. "If this fake art scheme is what it's going to take to let go of the past, then I hope it works for you. But I won't let you drag me back in." She stands up and collects her bag. "Goodbye, Nate."

"Maggie…" He calls her name, but he doesn't come after her. Just as well. 

Maggie catches a cab home and calls Hicks to tell him that she can't take the job. When he tries to change her mind, she says that a family emergency has come up and there’s no way they can reschedule. She recommends an old rival to take her place, someone that Nate can manipulate.

Two months later, she sees on the news that Blackpoole is out, heading to jail for fraud. The company is reeling, and Sterling steps up in the power vacuum to take control. Nate's name never comes up. Before James can start pontificating about his plans to purge wrongdoers from the company, Maggie shuts off the tv.

**

Maggie visits Sam's grave regularly. It isn't something she did when she and Nate were still together; back then it hurt too much. In a weird, illogical sort of way, she didn't want him to see his parents such a mess. Now she comes when she's particularly lonely, or when it's nice outside and his favorite kind of weather, or on days that were important to him. His birthday, the first day of school, the day he'd gotten the cast off from when he'd sprained his wrist. Sam had been so proud of the signatures he’d collected on that scuffed-up plaster. (She still has that in storage somewhere. It hurts too much to look at, but she’d wanted to keep it safe.) 

Lately, she's taken to sitting by his grave and just talking. Maggie isn't crazy enough to believe that he can hear her; he's waiting in Heaven, but his spirit doesn't come down to hang around his grave. She knows you can’t really talk to ghosts. It makes her feel better, anyways. Being close to him. She used to sit with him in the hospital for hours and tell him about her day and listen to his stories about the nurses and the dreams he'd had and what his favorite meal was on a given day. This feels a little bit like that. 

"You should be proud of your dad," she tells him on this particular day. It's not an anniversary of anything for Sam, but it's important to her. "He did what he set out to do for you; he protected you. He didn't let the bad guys win." Neither has Maggie. She didn't give up. She is here, right now, and surviving is the biggest slap in the face to any villain. She reminds herself of that on days that she wants to stop trying. "A horrible person is in jail because your dad wanted to honor you. I'm proud of him for that."

Maggie feels more than sees Nate settle in the grass next to her, careful not to touch her. She isn't sure how long he's been there. It doesn't matter. She's not angry with him anymore. "Your mom is even stronger than I am, kiddo,” he says conversationally. His hands pull up long blades of grass and rip them into pieces. “She rebuilt herself, out of the ashes, like that phoenix you learned about in school. She didn't let what happened hold her down, like… like I did." 

Maggie feels her throat tighten, and the words carved into Sam's headstone get blurry. She bites the inside of her cheek. 

Nate is still talking. "Living is so much harder than giving up, but it’s worth it. Your mom taught me that. I don't think I would still be here if it wasn't for her."

Tears are somehow dripping down Maggie's cheeks, and she doesn't remember starting to cry. Ever gentle, Nate puts a careful hand on her shoulder. "This is the day that you left me," he says quietly, addressing her for the first time instead of Sam. There's no resentment in his voice, just curiosity. "I didn't think I'd find you here."

She opens her mouth to answer, but the words stick in her throat and a sob comes out instead. Nate is patient, rubbing gentle circles on her back until she's calm enough to speak. (She hasn't really cried, not since that night when Nate told her the truth. She thinks she shouldn't be crying now.) "It's when you had to make the choice not to give up," she says finally. It’s what makes this day important; not that Maggie left him, but that he survived. "I'm sorry I didn't see that when you asked for my help."

"I deserved everything that you said to me," he insists gently. It’s a big step for the man who used to know everything. "I was still selfish and angry, and I had no right to ask you for anything, especially not to use you as a part of my revenge. You were right, getting Ian… I let control get away from me, lost focus on what was important. But I'm done with that now, for good this time.” He tears up the last of the grass and brushes it from his hands. “I'm thinking about a career change, actually; something that helps people instead of hurts them."

Maggie looks at him for the first time then. He's older and more worn, gray patches starting to take over his stubble. But his eyes are clear and bright, and there's less weighing him down than she's ever seen. _Peace_ , she thinks. "And you came all the way out here to tell me that?"

"Technically, I came all the way out here to tell _him_ that." He nods at Sam's grave. "That you saved me from myself and that I'm planning to do better, for both of you. Like I said, I wasn't expecting to find you here today."

She manages a smile through her tears. "I'm happy for you." And she means it. That's all Maggie has ever wanted for him, to know that he’s happy.

They sit for a while, watching the sunlight dapple over Sam’s grave. It’s… comfortable being here, just the two (three) of them. It’s something for which Maggie could never quite numb the ache.

Eventually, Nate clears his throat. "I know that I really don't have any right to ask you this, either… but I could use some help.” One shoulder rises in an embarrassed shrug, and he eyes her cautiously, like an animal that might bolt if he moves to fast.

She blinks and wipes at her tears.

“Doing good isn't a singular profession. I could use someone who knows how important it is to me, and who is better at people than I am. If you wanted, of course. Like you reminded me last time, we aren't married anymore. I know you've put yourself back together just fine without my help."

Maggie thinks about her steady, repetitive freelance work, her lonely studio apartment, the therapist she's been blowing off for weeks to come talk to Sam instead. She thinks about Nate, pulling himself up out of the pit he'd dug when Sam died, rebuilding himself into someone a little sharper and different but _good_ , someone she can maybe be proud to know again. She thinks about Sam. She thinks the idea of his parents being heroes is something he would have been proud of. 

She thinks that she might be ready to do more than simply exist in life.

"We might be able to work something out."

Nate doesn't smile. She knows it's on purpose, because the corners of his mouth are twitching and she can see it in his eyes. But he makes a shot at being professional. "In that case, Ms. Collins, I would like to offer you a job." He sticks out his hand in a parody of their last meeting, and Maggie shakes it firmly. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ford. But are you sure you want to hire me?" She grins a little through the last of her tears. It’s a start. She can work with that. "You barely know me."

"True. But I'd like to."

"Me too."

_fin._


End file.
